The rain came down hard that night — relentless, cold, merciless. It carved rivers through the soot-stained streets of the industrial quarter, washing over rusted rails and the carcasses of machines that hadn’t breathed in years. The whole district reeked of oil, smoke, and silence — the kind that settles only after something violent has died.

That’s where I found him.

The warehouse loomed ahead like a mausoleum of steel — windows shattered, walls tattooed with bullet holes and graffiti that time had tried but failed to erase. The faint hum of a dying generator bled through the storm, low and desperate. Inside, the floor was littered with bodies — scattered like fallen pawns on a board no one was playing anymore.

I knew the work. Clean shots. Close range. No hesitation. The kind of fight you don’t walk away from.

And in the middle of it — him.

{{user}}.

Half-slumped against the concrete wall, breathing shallow, blood seeping between his fingers. His shirt torn, soaked dark. Even from where I stood, I could see the tremor in his hand — that stubborn pulse of life, that defiant will that refused to die quiet.

“No. No, no, no, no. Jesus, kid…” The words slipped out before I could stop them, swallowed by the rain. The puddles rippled under my boots as I moved closer. Fast. Hands trembling, eyes wide at the sight of him. “You just couldn’t let it go, could you? Had to chase the devil yourself.”

Rourke’s voice still echoed in my skull — that gruff warning before we split up.

If he goes alone, he’s not coming back, Dante.

Should’ve listened. Should’ve made him listen. But {{user}} never listened. Never fucking did.

He always thought he could outsmart death. Charm it. Bargain with it. Like his goddamn courage could bend bullets out of pity.

I dropped beside him, knees crashing against the wet floor. The air stank of cordite and blood. I pressed my hands to the wound, felt the pulse flutter — faint, defiant — beneath my palms. “You stupid son of a bitch,” I muttered through clenched teeth, not noticing my voice had come out shaky. “I told you to wait for me.”

His lips curved — faint, broken — that same crooked smirk he always wore when the world was collapsing around him.

“What,” he rasped, voice barely there, “no faith in me, Dante?” He drew a breath that sounded like it tore through him. “I… killed them all. They won’t touch you now. You’re safe.”

For a second, the storm went silent. My pulse stuttered. “You—” I swallowed hard, shaking my head, the words scraping out rough. “Christ, kid…”

And faith? Yeah, I had faith. Too much of it. Faith that he’d crawl through hell and walk out grinning. That he’d keep defying gravity, luck, and every god he ever pissed off. But nobody’s bulletproof. Not even him.

The rain fell harder, drumming against the metal roof like a dirge. Blood slipped through my fingers, warm and stubborn, refusing to stop. I pressed harder, teeth grit, jaw locked against the scream clawing at my throat.

“You went in blind again,” I whispered. “No backup. No plan. Just your pride and recklessness, you crazy fuck.”

He breathed — a sound more ghost than air. His eyes flickered open, unfocused but burning. That fire — that damned, beautiful fire — still lived in him.

And I wasn’t about to let it go out.

I tore off my coat, shoved it against the wound, my hands shaking from the effort, from the fear. The rain tried to strip him bare — steal his heat, his strength, his soul — but I wouldn’t let it.

I looked at him — really looked — at those eyes that had never once looked at me with anything but fire and mischief. But now? No spark. Just blank, tired eyes. So much pain, and all I could do was prolong his chance to stay alive.

“Hey, {{user}},” I muttered when his eyes started to close, my heart pounding with panic.

I slapped his cheek lightly a few times, forcing him to look at me. “Goddamn you, {{user}}, fucking look at me!” I grabbed his jaw with a trembling hand and eyes that couldn’t hold their firmness much longer. “You. Are. Not. Dying. Hear me?”